


Red Riding Hood and the Leather Jacket

by NewNewDoctor (DisnerdingAvenger)



Series: The New Romantics [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Club AU, F/M, Seventies AU, Sort-of-Stripper AU, TW: minor violence, tw: abuse, tw: mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 07:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17618312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisnerdingAvenger/pseuds/NewNewDoctor
Summary: Rose Tyler has dreamed of being a singer since she was a little girl, but after a failed attempt at making it big with her (untalented) guitarist ex-boyfriend, Jimmy Stone, the teenage runaway had no other choice but to become a stripper to pay the rent, going by the pseudonym of 'Red Riding Hood' at the Space Oddity strip club. Now, twenty-two in the year 1978, Rose is convinced that she's left all of the trouble with Jimmy in the past - until he shows up outside of the club one night, demanding that she "pay up" for bailing on him four years ago. The last thing that she expects is for a bouncer from a neighboring club, clad in a leather jacket and riding a motorcycle, to come to her rescue.





	Red Riding Hood and the Leather Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, folks! Part 2/6, a.k.a. the John/Rose origin story with a splash of Jack Harkness.

If you had asked fifteen-year-old Rose Tyler what her dream was back in 1970, she certainly wouldn’t have told you “stripping every night at the Space Oddity club to ‘Sweet Emotion’ by Aerosmith”. No, she would have told you what so many girls her age would have said; she wanted to be a singer. Yet, what set her apart from all of those other girls was that she was actually good. _Really_ good. Good enough to be at the helm of nearly any band of her choosing in London; good enough to go solo. So why, you’re undoubtedly asking, did she end up working the pole nightly from 1973-1978?

The answer to that question is simple. _It was all Jimmy Stone’s fault._

You see, everyone always knew that Rose Tyler was a good singer; from the time she belted her first note at choir practice in primary school, people had continuously told Jackie Tyler that her daughter had a voice like honey and the blonde hair to match. _She could really **make** something of her talent_. But headshots were expensive, and the time that would need to be taken off work for auditions even more-so. As a single mother trying to raise her daughter on the minuscule paychecks from multiple part-time jobs, putting Rose out onto the talent circuit had just never been viable.

However, if she’d known what would happen years down the road, maybe Jackie would have given it a go. For Jimmy Stone was among the many people to notice Rose’s talent and beauty, and it took him no time at all, with his charming smile, long black hair, ripped jeans and an endless supply of tight band t-shirts, to get the sixteen-year-old under his spell. He convinced her that her talents were being wasted sitting in a classroom learning about Dickens, fractions, frog anatomy, and the Wars; she should be putting her energy, and her voice, to good use.

To Jimmy Stone, “putting her voice to good use” had meant dropping out of secondary school to add her vocals to his mediocre guitar-playing at record deal auditions. He was twenty at the time and had been trying for the past four years, since _he_ dropped out of secondary school, to make it big; he’d started out in a band with three other blokes but, upon realizing just how rubbish he really was, they kicked him out. After that, his attempts at a solo deal had been fruitless. He couldn’t even get an audition.

When he saw Rose Tyler on the estates, singing on the way home from the bus stop, he’d been certain that he'd found his solution. The golden girl would be his golden ticket to stardom.

Unfortunately, things didn’t pan out quite how he had promised Rose they would. His proclamation that they “ _would be an unmatched duo_ ” turned out to be correct, but not in the way he had intended; it wasn’t that other duos didn’t match up to them, it was that _he_ didn’t match up to _Rose_. No matter how pretty her voice or how enchanting her eyes, two years of auditions didn’t result in so much as an EP, let alone an album deal. Nobody could stand Jimmy’s stunted, awkward guitar riffs long enough for them to make it through a single song.

It was Jimmy’s fault that they were failing miserably. So, naturally, he blamed Rose.

He insisted that she wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t pretty enough, and that “maybe if [she] would put out a little, [they] would’ve gotten a deal by now.” Finally, after they hit the last recording studio in London – a new duo, Jacobs & Jacobson, who were desperate for new acts to get themselves off of the ground – and that also flopped, Jimmy hit Rose.

That had been the last straw. She’d taken the years of verbal abuse, telling herself repeatedly that it was just the stress making him say such nasty things, but when he _hit_ her? She took off running and never looked back.

The only problem, she quickly realized, was that rent in London was expensive - too expensive to afford on her own with only her minimum-wage shop girl gig to support herself. She’d gotten the job three months into her stint with Jimmy, upon realizing that music alone wasn’t going to keep them afloat; Jimmy had made up the difference by pawning things that he got from God only knows where. She hadn’t wanted to ask, having been certain it involved something illegal. But without that extra income, shady as it may have been, Rose was stuck.

Which was how she ended up in the Space Oddity strip club, a casting flier in hand, in May of 1973, only a few weeks after her eighteenth birthday. Legally, she was old enough to work there if she wanted to – and what choice did she have? Without her A-levels, nowhere in the city that paid enough to afford a flat on her own would hire her – and besides that, she didn’t want to give up on her dreams entirely. She was still young, and pretty, and talented; if she worked all night, she could spend her days writing songs and keep trying to find her way into the limelight.

She hadn’t given up on her dreams. She’d just put them on pause.

* * *

The Space Oddity strip club was, for lack of a better word, _odd_. Despite the name, there was very little to do with space in either the theme or the décor; the inside, rather than blues and silvers, was upholstered with red and black velvet of various hues and textures, and all of the strippers had fairy tale pseudonyms. The girls who Rose auditioned for went by 'Cinderella' and 'Beauty', and they’d hired her instantly. Evidently, those gymnastics classes that she had taken before she dropped out of school had been good for something, if not _exactly_ what she’d anticipated.

On the night of her first performance at the club, after two weeks of training and learning the necessary routines, Rose Tyler had been christened 'Red Riding Hood'. Her routine, _surprise-surprise_ , involved an impossible pair of red stilettos, shockingly red lipstick, and a skimpy set of red lingerie hidden beneath an exaggerated red cloak.

Rose used to like red. Not so much, anymore. After nearly five years of wearing it every night and having men howl like lecherous wolves for her to “take it off”, it sort of lost its appeal.

However, dislike the job though she may, it did have its perks.

  1. She was in the best shape that she’d ever been in, which was nothing to turn her nose up about. Pole dancing, as it turned out, was an excellent nightly workout.
  2. The gig paid _bloody_  well. She was comfortably situated and, after almost five years, even had savings. That was more than she could say when she was living with Jimmy.



Really, there wasn’t much that she could complain about. She certainly didn’t _enjoy_ the work, like Snow White and Thumbelina, but it served its purpose. Rose may not have been happy, but she was content.

Then, after over four years of being in the clear, Jimmy finally managed to track her down.

* * *

**_January 30 th 1978: 3:06 a.m._ **

Her shift tonight had been particularly grueling. Between one of the regulars grabbing her arse, despite the club’s _strict_ “look but don’t touch” policy, and the ever-present ache in all of her muscles, Rose was more than ready to catch a cab home, take a long bubble bath, and then crawl into bed to sleep well into the afternoon.

To no one’s surprise, it was raining when she stepped outside onto the curb, the club’s heavy door swinging shut behind her under the Space Oddity’s neon sign: blue lettering over a misshapen purple Saturn with a green ring. Again – completely misleading. She’d mentioned to the owner once that the name and the décor didn’t quite match up, but he’d just shrugged and, for all intents and purposes, ignored her. People didn’t come for the atmosphere, after all – they came for the girls.

Hugging her tight leather jacket closer around herself against the drizzle, Rose stepped out to the curb and glanced down the street, hoping to see a cab in the distance; it was in her haste to get out and get home that she missed the figure lurking beside the door, having been concealed initially by it swinging open.

_He always was wickedly clever for such a bloody thick-wit._

“Should’ve known you’d be hiding out at a dive like this. Nowhere else would have you.”

The rain trickling through her hairspray and onto her scalp felt warm in comparison to the icy chill that ran down Rose’s spine upon hearing _that_ voice. The voice that she’d thought she had escaped. How did he find her _now_ , after years of being free of him? Swallowing the lump in her throat, Rose kept her gaze glued resolutely on the street, refusing to give Jimmy the satisfaction of turning around and looking at him. If she didn’t acknowledge him, maybe he’d think he had the wrong girl and walk away. She looked different now, after all; she wasn’t that starved eighteen-year-old with straight blonde hair and too much eye makeup. Now twenty-two, she’d filled out more after having enough money to buy the occasional cheeseburger and chips if she wanted them; her hair was a brighter blonde, teased to an intentionally messy volume; and her makeup was flawless. She had to hand it to strippers; they knew how to work the pole _and_ an eyeliner pencil, both with _extreme_ precision.

But, of course, ignoring him didn’t work. It never did.

“What, you’re just gonna pretend you can’t hear me? Think you’re too good for me now? You’re a _whore_ , Rosie; a good for nothin’, two-bit whore. _What_ – you wouldn’t dish it out to get us a single, but you’ll put out for a single in your knickers?”

Of course, despite how hard she tried to bite her tongue, _that_ got a rise out of her. She hated that it did, because she knew it was exactly what he wanted, but she couldn’t help it. She wouldn’t just stand there and let him call her a whore like she worked the street corner every night. She hadn’t stooped _that_ low, and she never would. Not for a record deal; not for _anything_.

“I don’t _put out_ for anyone,” she snapped, rounding on the heel of her shoe and glaring, stalking a few steps in his direction. If ignoring him wouldn’t work, she’d just have to make it clear that she wasn’t afraid of him.

That had been a mistake. The way his eyes raked up and down her figure the second she turned made her feel physically ill; he always had been a letch. Presently, he looked like he would’ve liked nothing more than to rip off her leather jacket, tight jeans, and stilettos, just like he used to. But she wasn’t that stupid teenage girl anymore. She’d grown up, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what she’d ever seen in Jimmy Stone.

Especially _now._ He looked worse than he ever had when they’d been dating. He was clearly broke; he’d lost weight, his hair looked like he hadn’t showered in ages, and his clothes were tattered – undoubtedly not by choice this time. He was a wreck. Clearly, his music career hadn’t flourished after she ran off, despite his frequent insistence that he didn’t need her to make it, and Rose found she felt a small sense of satisfaction over that.

“Doin’ quite well for yourself, then? All high and mighty, now that everyone loves you?” Jimmy quipped, not phased by Rose’s apparent bravery. He simply sauntered closer to her under the yellow glow of the street lamp above them, his long bangs falling into his face, shadowing his eyes.

“ _Yes_. For your information, I _am_ doin’ well for myself. So you can get lost,” Rose snapped right back, her smoky-eyed glare fixed solidly in place. She wasn’t going to waver. Not this time.

But despite her outward display of courage, the way Jimmy smirked in response to her words made her stomach churn slightly. She didn’t like this. She didn’t like it one bit. _Where the bloody hell were all of the cabs?_

“Well, if you’re doin’ so well for yourself, you won’t mind givin’ me what you owe – plus interest,” he quipped, clearly looking proud of himself for being what he undoubtedly thought was _oh-so-clever_.

Rose couldn’t help it; upon hearing his words, her expression shifted from one of dangerous confidence to being utterly gobsmacked. His proclamation was just so… so…

_…so ridiculous._

“What I _owe?_ What the _hell_ are you playin’ at? I don’t owe you a cent!” she snapped, her frown quickly returning, and she clenched her fists at her sides when Jimmy took another step toward her, swallowing the rising lump in her throat. He was close enough that she could smell his body odor combined with the sour remnants of his most recent pint on his breath, and it was sickening.

“Oh, you think so, do you? Listen here, _Rosie_ ; we entered into a partnership, you and me. Either we succeeded together or we failed together. You were the reason we failed, and then you _took off._ Ran away into the night, leavin’ me high and dry. You thought you could just _get away_ with it? That I wouldn’t come t’collect what’s _mine?_ ”

He took another step forward and, this time, Rose instinctively took a step back. He was drunk, clearly, and he had _that look_ in his eye. The same look he’d had when he hit her. The look that had sent her running.

“I lost the flat ‘cause of you. Lost all my shit. Lost _everything_. And here you’ve been sittin’ pretty, this whole time, whoring yourself out for the big bucks to the big blokes, while I’ve been livin’ on the streets. But I _found you_ , Rosie; I was _always_ gonna find you; and now you’re gonna _pay_.”

The word clearly had a sinister double meaning; she was going to pay literally, but also physically. Panic seeping into her veins, aware that she wouldn’t be able to make it back inside without him grabbing her, what with him blocking the door, Rose started to reach for the switchblade in her jacket pocket – that she kept there for the express purpose of defending herself from blokes lurking about outside of the club, looking to get more than she was willing to give – at the same moment that Jimmy lunged. He knocked the knife out of her hand before she even had a chance to flick it open, and then he was grabbing her wrist and yanking her against him, angrily groping at her as he searched for pockets that might contain her tips from the night’s shift. Struggling to get away from him only resulted in Jimmy applying more force to his grip on her and, when she twisted in an attempt to escape, she felt something snap.

Her shout of pain was drowned out, suddenly, by the squealing of tires on the pavement behind her and the roar of an engine – _a motorcycle engine?_ – and then Jimmy’s hateful, pawing hands were gone. Seconds later she heard the sharp snap of knuckles against skin and then Jimmy was on the concrete, groaning in agony apparently equal to that which he had inflicted upon her.

Rose could feel her heart pounding in her ears, both from the pain in her wrist and the shock of her rescue, and it took her a moment to realize that her knight-in-shining-armour was talking to her – or, rather, her knight-in-a-big-leather-jacket with shockingly blue eyes. Blinking in a few times in an attempt to clear her head, Rose slowly focused in on his features.

Blue eyes, _check_ , tall, bulkily muscled, with short hair and rather large ears. Not _conventionally_ handsome, but handsome none the less.

Upon realizing that she was staring, Rose finally asked, slightly disoriented, “…sorry, what?”

“I asked if you were alright,” the deep, northern voice responded, rain dripping down his jacket and cheeks as the drizzle continued around them. In the heat-of-the-moment turned panic, Rose had actually forgotten that it was raining. “Did he hurt you?”

“I’m… He… Yeah, sort of. A little,” Rose managed, finally looking down at her damaged hand, cradling it slightly in the other. Whatever Jimmy had done to her, it hurt like hell. More than just a sprain.

_Oh, brilliant. Just brilliant. How am I supposed to do my routine if I can’t even hold onto the pole?_

Grimacing at the thought, and from the pain that trying to move her hand had caused, Rose gasped out, “My wrist. He did something t'my wrist. He grabbed me, an’ I tried to get away, and I felt somethin’ snap.”

Taking a small step closer, the bloke hesitated when Rose instinctively shrank back, asking, “May I?”

He indicated her hand, adding, “Made it halfway through medical school, me. A bit of an amateur doctor. I can help.”

Slowly, after deciding that he surely wouldn’t have decked Jimmy like he did if he wanted to hurt her, too, Rose took a small step closer to him and nodded, letting him gingerly take her hand in his. He cradled her elbow with the other, gently holding her in place while he deftly assessed the damage. To her immense disappointment, he ended up confirming her initial fears after his wince-causing examination.

“It seems worse than a sprain. Won’t know for sure until it’s been x-rayed.” After a moment of hesitation, he asked, “I can take you to the hospital, if you’d like?” Gesturing with a nod toward his bike, parked – quite literally – in the middle of the street in the midst of his chivalric rescue, the stranger offered Rose a grin that made her stomach do flip-flops before he added, “It’ll get you there faster than a cab. Free of charge, too.”

All Rose could manage in response was, “Why’re you bein’ so nice to me?”

He looked at her like she was mad for asking such a thing before responding, “You looked like you needed help – and when somebody needs help, I never refuse.”

That such a genuinely good-hearted person could exist seemed astonishing to Rose, especially after her encounter with Jimmy, and she blinked for a solid minute before stating, “I don’t even know your name.”

At that, he offered her a brighter smile, holding out his hand to shake Rose’s non-damaged one.

“John – John Smith – and you are?”

Placing her hand delicately in John’s, she felt the smallest of smiles work its way onto her face in return as he gave her hand a squeeze, lightly shaking it before she said, “Rose. Rose Tyler.”

“Rose Tyler,” he repeated, and Rose couldn’t help noticing that the way he said her name sounded - _and felt_ \- like a caress. Wetting her lips subconsciously, certain her pupils had just dilated despite her pain, she nodded when he asked, “Well, Rose Tyler – care for a lift?”

“If you’re really offerin’,” she agreed, taking a few steps toward where he’d left his bike, glancing once again up and down the street. Still not a single cab in sight. _What was the universe playing at?_

“Wouldn’t’ve said it if I didn’t mean it,” John decreed, gently turning Rose around to face him before grabbing his helmet off of the handlebar closest to them, carefully placing it upon her head and adjusting the straps so it would fit snugly over her rain-dampened blonde hair. He offered her another one of those bright smiles afterward – far brighter than she’d ever received from a complete stranger in the past – before he jokingly remarked, “Can’t have you hurting your head, too.”

“How considerate,” Rose breathed and, after a tick, they both laughed.

She couldn’t remember the last time that she had  _really_ laughed.

“Shall we?” he asked, once the helmet was securely in place, and Rose nodded.

“Yeah. Actually, _no_ ; hang on a mo,” she countered, walking purposefully over to where Jimmy still lay, nose bleeding, on the ground. Scowling down at him, she tugged her heel-clad foot back before slamming it home between his legs, _hard_ , relishing in the agonized groan he exhaled.

Turning, Rose walked back over to John, giving a purposeful nod of her head.

“ _Now_ we can go.”

His answering grin was a mile wide.

* * *

After an exhilarating jaunt through London’s rainy streets with the city's lights glimmering on the wet pavement, tucked onto the bike’s seat between John’s leather-clad chest and the handlebars (given she couldn’t hold on from behind with her wrist the way it was), they had ended up at the hospital. Evidently, John had a connection in the ED from his med school days, for she got in to see a doctor almost straight away.

Her wrist had been fractured in her struggle with Jimmy, but not entirely broken; she would need to wear a splint until it had healed. On the bright side, it was better than a proper break with a proper cast, but on the dimmer side, there was _no way_ she’d be able to strip tomorrow night, or in the weeks preceding. John could tell, from the way Rose was staring dejectedly at the splint on her left arm, that something was wrong.

“Alright?” he asked, sitting on the chair beside the examination table that she was perched upon. They were waiting for the doctor to return with the prescription for her pain medication.

Shaking her head, Rose took a deep breath before muttering, “I’m gonna lose my job. I can’t work with my hand like this, and they won’t wait around for me to get better. They’ll get somebody else in to take my place.”

John, who appeared to have a solution for everything, considered her for a moment before stating, “I might be able to help with that.”

* * *

His answer came in the form of a club a few blocks over, the neon sign out front gleaming bright blue and reading _The Blue Box_. The door, painted to resemble an old police box, was presently shut. Given it was now past six in the morning, they’d apparently closed up for the night.

“You work here?” Rose asked, her good arm slung through John’s after depositing his helmet with his bike, her fingers curling around the crook of his elbow. Looking down at her, John couldn’t help noticing the way the early morning sunshine brought out the gold in her eyes. _Golden eyes, yellow hair, pink cheeks_ – she was beautiful. _Absolutely beautiful_.

Not that he’d ever have the nerve to say so aloud. _How could he?_ Him, a university drop-out, bouncing at a club at forty-one years old – he wasn’t good enough for her. He hadn’t known her long, but he already knew that much.

“Yep,” he clarified in response to her question, offering her a smile before fishing a set of keys out of his jacket pocket to unlock the door. The interior, Rose noticed as soon as they stepped inside, was _far_ more 'space chic' than the Space Oddity could ever hope to be. Sleek lines; bright purples, blues, pinks and silver glinting everywhere she looked; white chairs and sofas in the lounge areas and white bubble stools at the bar; and the _neon_. The place practically hummed with the energy from the lights, and it felt absolutely intergalactic. Not to mention, it was _huge_. The Blue Box had probably been a ballroom at one point in time, now converted into a club with high ceilings and two floors, connected by a winding staircase made of steel with metal grating for the stairs.

There was a stage on the other side of the room, with lights still flashing around it and the sound system blaring; presently, the wailing guitar solo of “Bohemian Rhapsody” was wafting through the speakers and, much to Rose’s surprise, a bloke seems to appear out of nowhere as the vocals ramped up once again. He slid on his knees down the length of the gleaming black granite bar, a bottle of whiskey in his hand serving as a makeshift microphone while he sang – _loudly_.

“ _So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye?_ ”

“Jack,” John piped up, attempting to get his attention, but the bloke – Jack – was having none of it.

“ _So you think you can love me and leave me to die?_ ”

“ _Jack_ ,” John repeated, louder, as the man in question swiveled in a circle on the bar, bending far enough back that Rose was certain some of her stripper friends would have been envious, before he continued to sing.

“ _Ooooh, baby; can’t do this to me, baby! Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here!_ ”

“ ** _Jack!_** ” John finally resorted to shouting, to which the singing man hopped down off of the bar as if on cue, sauntering over to them – and making it painstakingly clear to Rose that he had likely been aware of their presence the entire time.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to interrupt a man’s performance, Johnny?” Jack asked over the still blaring music, to which John rolled his eyes.

“Can you turn that drivel off? It’s six in the bloody morning, not peak party hours!”

“It is not _drivel_ , John, it’s _Queen_ ,” Jack retorted before his eyes fell on Rose, prompting him to smirk all-too-flirtatiously. “ _Speaking_ of queens…” Taking her good hand in his, Jack bent and kissed it, looking up at Rose from beneath his lashes before crooning, “Jack Harkness. And just who might you be?”

“Not interested in you, that’s who she is,” John piped up before Rose could answer, “and, last I checked, you had a _girlfriend_.”

“You checked wrong. Donna and I are on the outs,” Jack countered, tossing Rose a wink before he straightened up, walking over to adjust the volume on the sound system behind the bar.

“What’d you do this time?” John asked, all-too-knowingly, to which Jack asked, “Why do you always assume it was _me_ who did something?”

“Because it’s always you who does something,” John responded plainly, and Jack simply shrugged.

“Fair enough. But none of this answers my question: who’s your pretty friend?”

“Rose,” Rose piped up before John could cut in again, walking over to stand in front of the bar while Jack stood behind it, putting his whiskey-microphone away. “Rose Tyler. John said you might have a job for me.”

“Rose has recently found herself unfortunately unemployed,” John conceded, walking over to stand beside her while Jack came to lounge against the bar, his gaze flitting between the two of them before landing on Rose again. Even his _gaze_ was flirtatious, but in a playful sort of way, not in the forcing-himself-on-you sort of way that she hated.

“Oh yeah?” Jack finally asked, arching an eyebrow as he grabbed a towel to start wiping down the counter that he had been sliding upon just moments before. “Unemployed from where, exactly?”

At that, John opened his mouth to answer – before closing it just as quickly. He’d just _assumed_ Rose meant she worked at the strip club, given he met her in front of it, but he was now realizing that her complaint made to him at the hospital could apply to any number of jobs. A temp, typing in an office, like Donna; a waitress working down the street, who would have to carry trays - there were all sorts of jobs for young women Rose's age that a fractured wrist could hinder. Yet, he’d just _assumed_ , because she was beautiful and exceptionally good at walking in those completely impractical shoes, that she was a stripper.

How very… _apish_ of him.

“The Space Oddity,” Rose clarified, with no trace of shame on her face, and John didn’t like the way Jack’s eyes lit up at the mention of the place. Alright, so she _was_ a stripper, then, but it had still been rude of him to just _assume_.

“I _knew_ you looked familiar!” Jack stated, slinging the towel over his shoulder to lean against the bar directly in front of her, smirking giddily. “That’s the one with all the fairy tale characters, right? Rapunzel gives a _mean_ lap dance.”

“Rapunzel left, actually,” Rose stated, hopping up to sit on one of the bar stools, leaning back into the comforting curvature of the bubble-seat. “Got a job on one of those daytime soaps. _Castle Haven_ , I think.” Shrugging, she added, “I don’t watch much TV during the day.”

“Me neither,” Jack mirrored her shrug, tapping his fingers on the bar before asking, “Well then, Rosie, why are you out of a job? You’re _gorgeous_ ; they’d be idiots to show you the door.”

John felt his skin prickle when _Jack_ gave voice to his own sentiments about Rose’s beauty, if a bit lewder than he would have gone for, but he kept his jaw firmly locked. He’d look positively brutish if he objected to Jack giving her a compliment. He had no right to.

Holding up her injured arm atop the bar, Rose offered a slightly wry smile, leaning her cheek into the palm of her other hand.

“Can’t exactly swing about on a pole if I can’t hold onto it. Plus, a clunky splint’s not really _sexy_ , is it?”

“On you?” Jack asked, playfully looking Rose over as she sat in front of him before musing with a smirk, “It works.”

“Still,” she sighed, dropping her arm back into her lap and leaning back in her seat again, “I won’t be able to dance until this thing comes off, and they’re not gonna leave my spot empty for that long. They’ll find another Red Riding Hood in three days, max.”

Rose could already feel her savings slipping away. She’d only be able to pay so many months' rent before it was all completely gone, and then where would she be? On the streets, like Jimmy, probably resorting to the very thing she’d told him that she would never do. Repressing a shudder, she met Jack’s gaze again, asking, “How about it? Have you got a place for a girl like me?”

“Oh, I can think of _lots_ of places for a girl like you,” Jack flirted, making Rose blush, before he seriously stated, “ _But_ , if it’s a _job_ you’re looking for, I could always use somebody behind the bar. Another pretty face will only boost customer satisfaction.”

He tossed her a wink at that and Rose flashed him a cheeky smile in return, capturing her tongue between her teeth. Rapping his hands on the counter, Jack grinned and asked, “What do you think, Rosie? Wanna sling some drinks with me?”

“I’d _love_ to,” she agreed, positively beaming, and she snorted out a laugh when he added, “The tips are pretty good, too; not as good as you’re _used_ to getting, but I’m sure they’d be on par if you’d be willing to serve drinks topless.”

“Oi!” John finally spoke up, his own cheeks slightly flushed – likely from the mental image of Rose Tyler slinging drinks without a shirt on. “I highly doubt Rose wants to strip in a club _where it isn’t required of her_. Show her some respect.”

Peeking up at John when he spoke, Rose offered him a softer smile, finding herself genuinely touched by his proclamation. First, he swoops in and saves her from being mugged by her mental ex, and now he’s defending her honour (needless though it may be)? John Smith was looking more and more attractive to her by the minute.

“Of course it’s not _required_ ,” Jack agreed, rolling his eyes at John’s usual prickliness, pouring a set of shots - one for himself and one for Rose. “She only has to strip if she _wants_ to strip. We’re all about free will here in the Blue Box.”

Nudging one of the shot glasses toward her, Jack arched an eyebrow before asking, “Wanna join our crazy family? We know how to throw one hell of a party.”

Grinning, Rose picked up her shot, clinking her glass against Jack’s when he did the same.

“How can I say no t' that?”

Tossing the drink back, she exhaled a giggle at Jack’s whoop of excitement after he did the same, and the next thing she knew he was darting to the other side of the bar, hopping over the edge and heading toward the back.

“I’ve gotta call Donna! She’s gonna _love_ this. She’s always nagging me to hire more girls. Classic temp.”

“I thought you were on the outs with Donna?” John called after him, furrowing his brow, and he rolled his eyes almost _painfully_ hard when Jack called back, before disappearing, “When did I say that?”

After the door to the back room swung shut behind him, Rose swiveled around on her stool so that she could face John, resting her elbows back against the bar. She’d divested herself of her jacket since sitting down, and it took all of John’s willpower to _not_ stare down at her pink-halter-top-clad chest. Not to mention, her midriff was completely bare, _and was that a_ _bellybutton piercing?_

_Oh, **bloody hell.**_

“That’s two times you’ve saved me tonight, John Smith,” she mused, flashing him that same smile she’d given Jack moments before; cheeky, with just a hint of tongue. It was mouth-watering. “However am I gonna repay you?”

His cheeks still pink from Jack’s comment about Rose stripping, John cleared his throat at her provocative question, floundering (not unlike a fish) for a moment before he finally found the words that he was looking for.

_…sort of._

Because he _wanted_ to tell her that she was beautiful; that her smile tied his stomach up in knots and made his heart beat faster, and that, somehow, she managed to brighten his world in ways he hadn't known since he was twenty-three and his parents were still alive, and his future still promising. He wanted to tell her that she made him feel young again. He wasn’t _old_ , of course; forty-one was far from old. But letting go of your dreams to raise your baby-sister, taking on crummy job after crummy job along the way, ages you – if not the body, then the soul.

But he didn’t say any of that. He _couldn’t_ say any of that. Not only because he’d only just met her four hours, thirty-seven minutes, and eighteen seconds ago (and counting), but because Rose Tyler was young, and vibrant, and had such a _fantastic_ future ahead of her. He couldn’t weigh her down with the anchor of his baggage…

…no matter how much he might like to take her up on her unspoken, cheeky offer and put that teasing tongue of hers to good use with a well-and-proper _snog_.

So, instead, he said, “…friends?”

Holding out his hand to her, John watched as Rose turned her gaze down from his face (to his lips) to his outstretched hand, and then he watched a soft smile bloom upon her face like a rising sun.

_God, she was **beautiful**._

Reaching out in return, Rose Tyler took John Smith’s hand in hers – but, instead of shaking it, she chose to twine their fingers together, giving his hand a purposeful squeeze. Her smile warm, her golden eyes tender, and her touch the gentlest that John had known in over a decade, she softly agreed, “Friends.”

**Author's Note:**

> Next time: As John's unspoken feelings for Rose grow, a new player joins the game; Dr. Theo Noble, popping by the Blue Box with his sister, Donna. Meanwhile, Jane and Martha are still searching for a singer...


End file.
